


Libertatem

by taranoire



Series: Points of View [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 05:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13943751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: He will never stop looking for me, Fenris thinks, and the tears burn in his eyes and disappear as they fall into the muck he lays in.





	Libertatem

**Author's Note:**

> This is rough, buddy. Truth is I'm knee-deep in a new fandom and I knew if I didn't post this now it never would be.

He cannot stay in Seheron.  

 _Dominus_ will hunt him with dogs, drakolisks and fire, because that is what is demanded. Fenris is the spoils of a war inflicted on Arlathan many centuries over, the captive bastard of June, Falon’Din, Fen’Harel. His escape–and he trembles to hear the word even in his own head–is a treasonous insult against the man who created him. (His Maker and his heart.) 

In Minrathous,  _dominus_ punishes slaves who dare to run from him. He pays men to drag them screaming back to  _palacia,_ then lashes them to crosses and burns them alive. He watches, sighing in what can only be described as pleasure as they thrash and scream, flesh blistering and peeling black like paper. 

He makes Fenris watch, so close to the fire the heat burns in his skin. Sometimes  _dominus_  says: “I know you will never run from me, sweet  _fen-ris.”_

Fenris is not sure what is worse. That he will be humiliated and crucified in Minrathous, or that his  _dominus_ will watch him burn to lyrium and ash. 

* 

He flees to the coast, sleeplessly and soundlessly, and discovers a small fishing village with one salt ship headed for the mainland of the Tevinter Imperium. The place is nondescript and sparsely populated, and he can find no signs of Imperial presence within. By now,  _dominus_ will have alerted every port loyal to the empire that there is a dangerous  _fugitivus_ in their midst. 

The human captain hesitates to accept the few golden imperials he attempts to press into his hand, calling him  _lepus,_ calling him things he does not know the meaning of. The man thinks him a thief and, truthfully, that is not altogether wrong. But the coin was a gift from  _dominus._ It is himself he is attempting to smuggle.

His dejection must make an impression on the captain ( _dominus_ has always told him that pretty green eyes are the difference between him and a hired blade). He tells him that if he makes himself small and useful then he may sleep in the hold with the salt.  

*

Slowly, they cross the hot, briny Nocen Sea. 

For most of the time he’s ill. The cargo hold is dark and wet and stinks of chum. He drinks dirty water and eats dried bits of rotting fish when the captain remembers to toss it down. He sleeps when he’s tired, and when he’s not. The captain, for his part, keeps it a secret that there is an elf aboard his ship, and so he is spared from ill intentions. 

He feels safe here in the darkness, sheltered in the womb of a ship far away from his  _dominus,_ far away from the blood and rot soiling the jungle floor of Seheron. He idly wonders if the magister had the courtesy to burn the bodies, or if he trampled them underfoot his drakolisk and left them there to blacken. 

Fenris forgets the color of the sky and thinks: this is atonement.

When he sees the sun again, dawn-bright against the shore, he feels reborn. 

*

The little boat docks in one of Minrathous’ great shipyards, and Fenris does not delay in disembarking. He has never been in this part of the city–it is populated with the worst scourge of Tevinter,  _soporati_ and  _liberati_ and their slaves. He hesitates before attempting to breach the writhing mass of dockworkers, whores, peddlers, and pickpockets, and the salt ship captain catches him by the arm. 

He startles, because in all his time as a slave, no one so low in status has  _ever_ had the audacity to touch him. 

“Take this,” the captain says, and before he can refuse, presses a ragged cloak into his hands. “I don’t know what you’re running from, little  _lepus,_  but your silver hair catches the sun.” 

Then he’s gone, and Fenris leaves one sea for another.

*

There is only one way out of Minrathous and it is through the Great Gate, guarded by stone Juggernauts with their faceless helms and swords as large as horses. Fenris reasons that if he can only make it through, he can take the Imperial Highway south to amnesty or death.

 _Dominus_ has never hid the existence of the world from him. Fenris’ lessons with a  _liberati_ tutor were thorough, if absent of the written word. But they were always colored with half-truths. He knows now, in his grief, that not everything  _dominus_ said of Seheron was true; he wonders if the same can be said of the southern countries. 

It is strange to walk freely through the decaying streets of Minrathous without a retainer of slaves at his back or  _dominus_ leading the way. This is an old part of the city, built in the age of the early empire, with crumbling yellow stone and clusters of vines and lichen growing in the cracks. The scent is almost unbearable, far removed from the honeyed perfumes that waft through  _palacia._ While the sewer system was built to accommodate all of Minrathous, it has gone neglected in recent decades, and the odor intermingles with spices, brine, and rotting meat. 

He keeps his head down and gracefully avoids a group of chained slaves and their  _praefector,_ heading for the district’s gate. When he attempts to pass through, the Imperial Templar at the gate demands to see his papers. 

“Pardon, but I was not aware of this requirement,” Fenris says, then regrets it, because it is unlikely that any who pass through this particular gate are so well-spoken. 

“All elves in Minrathous must carry writs of passage,” the templar says. 

Spaced evenly along the crest of Minrathous’ walls, corpses hang rotting from crosses. Sometimes, at night, stray spirits possess them, and the bodies thrash wildly against their bounds. Fenris watches their tattered tunics stir gently in the breeze. 

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. There is no point in drawing further attention through argument. This was a futile pursuit to begin with. He will turn himself in to this templar;if he returns willingly, then surely  _dominus_ will grant him mercy. 

“Forgive me,” he says, “I am the property of–” 

“–He’s mine,” a nervous voice says low to his left. The interloper is a casteless dwarf with twitchy eyes and an unkempt beard. “I’ve been looking everywhere for him. Let’s get going, elf, the Ambassadoria isn’t known for its patience.” 

Fenris doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. 

“You claim this elf?” the templar asks. 

“Signed and sealed,” the dwarf lies.

The templar sighs, and then pulls a scroll from a pouch hidden near the waist of his breastplate. Fenris recognizes it as a senatorial decree, bearing the seal of the Tarquin House. “My orders are to obtain writs of passage from every elf who passes through this gate.” 

The dwarf stutters. “Right. His writ. You see, I…forgot it. It could be in Kal-Sharok for all I know. Tell you what, you Tevinters like gold, right?” 

The templar stares at him for a moment, then holds out his hand expectantly. The dwarf palms him a few imperials, and he counts it before nodding his head. “Everything is in order. Move along, dwarf. Keep your property close.” 

*

Fenris follows the strange dwarf soundlessly into the cold stone underground of the Ambassadoria. The ceiling glitters with lyrium dust and makes his skin tingle uneasily, and the presence of so many dwarves at once (a cacophony of business dealings and altercations) unsettles him. 

He has never been allowed to do much more than speak to a dwarf of the Ambassadoria, serving and entertaining them on the few occasions  _dominus_ hosts them regarding business interests.  _Dominus_ is, first and foremost, an Enchanter; he does not touch the lyrium himself, no–he has Tranquil for that–but he studies its uses prolifically. 

“ _Tu quis es_?” Fenris asks the dwarf in Tevene. 

“Right,” the dwarf replies, in the Trade tongue. “Uh.  _Benefaris. Ubi latrina. Vishante kaffas._ That’s all I know. I’m a bit of a failure when it comes to diplomacy.” He wrings his hands uncomfortably. “My name is Anso. I’m a jack of all trades, really. I couldn’t help but notice that bit of trouble you got into, and frankly I’m desperate for any help I can get.” 

Fenris thinks about this. “What sort of assistance do you require?” 

“I need someone to help me move questionable things through the Deep Roads and you need a way out of Minrathous,” the dwarf says. “It’s a long journey on a stretch of underground, and no one but whatever lurks in the dark will chase you there.” 

* 

He accompanies the dwarf on his journey through the Deep Roads, guarding the heavy covered cart of what Fenris suspects is lyrium dust based on the tinny echo it creates in his skin. True to Anso’s word, the journey is quiet, unobstructed by any but a few sickly darkspawn and spiderlings.

Anso is good company and does not ask any questions. Fenris comes to enjoy their meals together, eating roasted nug and drinking strong ale from Orzammar, a city he has heard of only derogatorily by his  _dominus._ A place where the casteless fare worse than even the lowest  _liberati._

“Does the darkness bother you?” Anso asks, one night. “Do you ever feel like you can’t breathe down here?” 

“No,” Fenris lies, remembering nights trapped in the dark with the stench of rot surrounding him.  _Dominus_ liked to do that, sometimes. Shut him away in spaces where the Veil was thin. Hold him close, after, and promise never to do it again. 

“Better than that awful sky of yours,” Anso says. “Feels like drowning in air.” 

He cleans up their supper dishes to rinse in a cold underground stream. 

* 

The time comes to leave Anso behind. Fenris blinks into the too-bright dawn of the surface, the scent of wildflowers and farmland overwhelming to him after weeks beneath the earth. The dwarf pays him, and suggests that he take the Imperial Highway and cross the Silent Plains to seek amnesty in the Free Marches. Hasmal protects slaves who flee from Tevinter masters. 

“ _Benefaris,_ dwarf,” Fenris says to him before they part ways, there on the precipice between two worlds. “I owe you a great debt I fear I may never be able to repay.” 

“Oh,” Anso says, surprised. “I wouldn’t go that far. It was mutually beneficial. Stay alive, elf, and maybe one day we’ll meet again.” 

Fenris very much doubts that, but he nods nonetheless before turning to face the world alone. The Tevinter heartland unfurls open before him, tall grasses and vineyards and small  _soporati_ homesteads. The air is sweet and clear. Minrathous’ stench is far away. 

*

Fenris begins his journey brimming with something he dares not call hope. He knows he is not yet out of danger, but he imagines that  _dominus_ is preoccupied by the war, by his senatorial duties. The man is wealthy, and could feasibly go to any great lengths to retrieve him, but Fenris believes ( _wants_ to believe) that his heart will soften in memory of the affection he holds for him.

 _Dominus_ once promised him that when he passed on, if Fenris still lived, he would let him go, not leave him to his sons. If that was true, and not just sweet whispers in the dark, then perhaps the magister will remain true to those intentions. Perhaps  _dominus_ has forgiven him. 

Fenris enjoys his newfound freedom–to the extent that he knows how. He follows the Imperial Highway across the heartland and stays at modest, comfortable inns that cater to the smallfolk. He knows nothing of frugality and so fritters away imperials on good wine and food: honey-must pastries, hummus and thin bread, wild game. 

He learns to gamble in the taverns, and practices speaking lower Tevene with the  _soporati_ and the  _liberati._ Far removed from the high-walled estates of  _palacia,_ they sup and joke with him as if he is equal to them, and he in turn does not shy away. 

He slinks off to a feather bed in the early hours of the morning and wakes in the warmth of afternoon. Sometimes, he doesn’t think of  _dominus_ at all. 

*

They come for him in the dead of night, hand over his mouth, holding him down. He bites and thrashes his way out of their grasp, and the lyrium scorches a path through his flesh. He’s aware of pain and panic and encompassing darkness before the lyrium flares on its own, lashing them whip-like with burning light. 

He grabs Lethendralis, then cuts down one, and another, but it is difficult in such tight quarters. A fist tangles in his hair and slams his head against something hard, and he desperately tries to regain balance before they can subdue him.  

He feels it, a jagged slice of a dagger, and he sees the blood pearl out. Thinking only of the mage (hooded and chanting in the corner), thinking only of the sick thrum of blood control, he crashes out of the inn’s window from the second story, then lands hard, shattered glass raining down upon him. He wheezes there on the ground, gasping for air, before dragging himself to his feet and into a stumbling sort of run. 

He can hear them shouting. 

He steals a horse from the inn’s stable, then rides it at a breakneck pace across the plains. He does not know where he is going. He does not care. He rides for what could be hours, until the sunrise appears blood-red on the horizon, until the horse trips and collapses from exhaustion and he’s thrown down along with it. 

He lies there, somewhere in the wilderness, his body aching and his heart hammering behind his broken ribs, and loses consciousness. 

*

When he wakes, the horse is gone and he is caked with blackened blood, though little of it is his. Clutching himself, he stumbles to a river and washes himself down, and then rests there, chilled to the bone in the cold morning air, shaking and frightened from what transpired the night before. 

 _Stultus_ , he thinks to himself.  _Imbecile_. 

He follows the river to a village, when he hears the comforting ring of Chantry bells. 

*

The brothers of the Chantry take pity on the broken, frightened elf he appears to be (or could be) and give him a bowl of weak broth. One of the brothers heals his broken bones with a spell that feels like warm water down his body. They tell him he can sleep in the laborer’s shed behind the chapel, if he wishes. Fenris thanks them for their generosity, and prays for the remainder of the day. 

He kneels before Andraste’s altar until the sun sets golden through the wood slats of the windows. He knows some simple prayers. He is nearly asleep, legs numb and hands clasped, when he hears the hunters beat the door open and march in. 

It is the same men who absconded him in the inn the night before. Bruised, but otherwise heavily armed and nonplussed, they form a line and block the entrance of the chapel. 

“Magister Tarquin promises mercy only if you return with us now,” the leader proclaims. “He has sworn to reclaim you alive, and he offers this single chance to return to him unharmed. If you do not surrender, he will not allow you to sleep or have a moment’s peace; he will pursue you until death releases you.” 

Fenris rises. He takes stock of them. They are well-trained, and marked with the seal of the Imperium. These are sanctioned bounty hunters, on the Archon’s employ.

“ _Accipite rem, si possis,”_ Fenris says, unsheathing his Lethendralis. They advance.

He kills them there in the chapel in fewer than fourteen seconds, blood running through the grooves in the stone floor. It is far easier in the daylight. The last alive begs for mercy, crawling backwards, then cries out as Lethendralis skewers his breast. Fenris twists the sword with a crunch and watches him die. 

He’s wiping Lethendralis with a dirty cloth when he sees the gold imperials in the chantry offering plate. Reaches out for it. Remembers himself.

He flees before the Chantry brothers find the corpses, mangled and strewn about in disarray. 

*

He treads more carefully, for lack of choice. The world is not so open anymore, not as safe or as liberating as he imagined it would be, and instead of warm taverns and hot meals he sleeps in the shelter of tall grasses and dines on whatever he can scavenge. At first, it’s not so hard; he steals what little food he can from the farmsteads (”One more crime, I suppose–at this rate I shall be executed threefold,”), and the weather is pleasant enough. 

Then it begins to rain, and it does not stop raining. 

*

The Imperium goes on almost forever, his tutor once told him. It’s smaller now than it used to be, its borders shaved age by age, but on it goes, for miles and miles. Great grass seas and barren deserts and mountains so shear as to resemble the sky. 

Fenris used to think it was romantic, and in his gilded cage in Minrathous, perhaps it was. But now, as he crests one hill in the pouring rain, soaked and freezing and with knives in his stomach, looking out on the endless Tevinter moor, he feels only grim exhaustion. 

*

In the cloak of darkness, he breaks through the door and ignores the dumb stares of a dozen cattle. It’s warmer in here, and drier, and he eats his fill of their feed before curling up in the straw to sleep for the first time in days. 

*

After that, it all runs together.

In the night, a snapped twig could mean any number of things, but it’s usually a bounty hunter or a mercenary. They’re becoming more clever, waiting for those moments where he’s vulnerable and alone and asleep to take him quietly, not giving  him a chance to draw his sword. They don’t know that the lyrium reacts autonomously, coiling and striking at any threat, and for now, it keeps him safe. 

But he can’t go on like this. 

*

He will never stop looking for me, Fenris thinks, and the tears burn in his eyes and disappear as they fall into the muck he lays in. The rain pounds the hovel harder. It’s wet, and cold, and the chill cuts him like a knife. 

What he doesn’t think, because it is too painful to acknowledge or admit, makes him feel small and vulnerable like he’s trapped in the dark naked and alone, is that Danarius does not want to burn the lyrium from his bones, does not want to kill him, but trap him again in obedience: break him until he forgets what freedom tasted like. 

Fenris knows that if Danarius ever came to him, in the flesh, he would not be able to run again. He would be content to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness and return to the glittering cage, warm and safe and quite removed from the world. Perhaps he would even ask his master to destroy his mind, lest he mourn for this half-life in the beyond. 

*

He’s somewhere in the expanse of the wastes, along the borders of Nevarra and Tevinter, and no one he passes makes any distinction between them. The wastes are seldom traveled and sparsely populated, inhabited by people who don’t want to be found or by traders between empires.  

He doesn’t know why he bothers going into the place. It’s an old tavern, dusty from the wastes, but crowded, an oasis in the desert. His throat is dry and his stomach feels as if it’s bleeding with hunger. When he steps in, his eyes adjust slowly to the sudden darkness, and he takes in the gathering of grizzled mercenaries, drunks, and whores. Apparently it doubles as a brothel, he thinks dully, but that doesn’t matter to him. 

He sits at the bar and hands the elven woman behind the counter his last two copper pieces. She brings him lukewarm water thick with dust, but he drinks it down. 

He doesn’t realize a man has come sit down beside him until he speaks. 

“Little elf. Are you hungry?” the man asks, gently, over the noise of the tavern (a poorly tuned lyre, laughter, shouts, breaking glass). He has handsome features and soft eyes. 

Fenris says nothing. He stares at the empty pewter, as if by will he can refill it. 

The man snaps his fingers at the tavern wench, then says something quickly in Nevarran. She disappears a moment and then returns with a bowl of some sort of stew–possibly wild hare–and a mug of ale.

Fenris looks to the man for permission to eat, and feels as if he’s a slave all over again. 

“Go on,” the man says. 

Fenris hesitates before hunger gets the better of him, and grabs the bowl like a wild beast, devouring it before it can be taken away. The man watches him eat and then finish it off with the ale with a smile on his face. 

“You’re from Tevinter,” he says. 

Fenris goes cold. 

“Many of my elves are from Tevinter,” the man says, waving a hand at the brothel whores. “Elven slaves are bred to be beautiful.” 

Fenris is no fool, but he asks anyway. “What do you want from me?” 

“I imagine you are on your way to Hasmal,” the man says. “You do not want to go there. The Free Marchers prey on the little elves, like you. They sell them back to their Tevinter masters for a pretty copper or two.” 

“I can’t,” Fenris says, but remains where he is. “I know what you would ask of me, and I would not be able to bear it.” 

“Ah,” the man says, as if having solved a conundrum. “Forgive me, elf. I should have realized. You are too well-bred to have been just any slave, yes? You were–what are they called– _concubinus._ _”_

 _“_ I was not,” Fenris insists, angry, but inside his head his mind is ablaze with contradiction and fear and shame.

“Perhaps you’re right,” the man says, and his tone is apologetic. “That was unkind of me. It simply pains my heart to see anyone go hungry.”  

He did not come this far to fall prey to another form of enslavement. He rises, intending to leave. 

“Pity,” the man says. He grabs a passing girl–young, too young–and pulls her into his lap. 

Fenris thinks about killing him. 

“ _Gratias pro aqua_ ,” he says to the tavern wench. She nods, and then he leaves.  

*

He wakes and realizes he does not know where he is. 

The floor is cold. Stone, perhaps. The manacles around his wrists are tight and he can’t muster the energy to breathe consciously, numb from the head down. His heart beats so loudly he can hear it in his ears. He rakes his eyes over his surroundings, looking for light, or any indication of familiarity; he tries to remember. Needs to remember. 

The ritual! Yes. He spent the day in prayer, eating nothing, ignoring the lower slaves. Silas brought him to the chamber, and then gave him a sip of water, and kissed his head, and then  _dominus_ –and then– _pain_ –

Fenris loses the thought, confused and frightened, and then forgets it all. 

*

It’s dark. He can see moonlight through the bars of the cage, and his captors gathered around a smoking fire. Strangely, he feels more lucid, more in control. Whatever they did to him, something has changed, and he’s aware of himself and his surroundings; he appears to be chained to the bars of a slave cart. 

He keeps silent. They cannot know they’ve made a mistake.

He slips easily through his chains and creeps steadily towards his prey. They do not have time to react. Not really. He tears at them like a thunderclap, letting his anger and his rage at being tied down–at being threatened with bondage when he has scrabbled for every breath of freedom his in lungs–fuel the storm. The first lash ruptures their eardrums, flays the flesh from their bones. 

The fire hisses out. 

He leaves one alive. 

“ _Quid sunt vestri ordinis_?” he asks, slick with blood, staring down into the face of a frightened Imperial templar. A damp patch soils his trousers. 

“ _Fugitivus,”_ the man cries, tears streaking his face, “that is what you are, and your master spends thousands to reclaim you as his constituents beg for bread. We received a message. A tip, from an inn-keep in the wastes. I only wish to feed my family–” 

“ _Filii tui fame quasi servos_ ,” Fenris says, and snaps his neck. 

*

He walks back into the tavern with a cool, practiced gaze. The proprietor’s eyes widen when they fall upon him, and then the man smirks, as if he is pleasantly surprised by his appearance. He advances, standing over him, as so many human men are wont to do. 

“I have reconsidered your proposal,” Fenris says. 

“Of course you have,” the man says, and Fenris wonders if he is too stupid to know that he knows. “Let me guess: Hasmal was not as friendly to you as you had hoped?” 

“On the contrary,” Fenris says, “I have not made it to Hasmal, yet.” 

The man reaches out for him, opens his mouth to speak, thinking he’s won his little game, and then Fenris quickly and violently tears into his chest, form alighting with ghostly runes. He squeezes, gently, as the man’s blood pulses in his fingers, as he tries to murmur one last unwelcome word while his pupils dilate. 

“I’m sorry,” Fenris says, though he is not really sorry at all. “That was unkind of me.” 

He ruptures his organs with a single quick pulse, then lets the corpse fall heavy on the sandy floorboards. It is technically a clean death. A trickle of blood spills from the man’s mouth, nose, ears, but otherwise he is seemingly untouched. 

Fenris leaves him there, and goes to sit at the bar, where the tavern wench glances briefly at the body with numb detachment. Fenris nearly regrets what he’s done upon seeing that look, but he imagines they will all fare better without their “generous” benefactor. 

“Water?” she asks him. 

“No,” he says. “ _Vino.”_


End file.
